


you know he never stings and he only hums for me

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, F/M, Kinks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-28
Updated: 2007-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean tries to remember, and Sam works to remind him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** you know he never stings and he only hums for me  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean, minor (MINOR) Dean/OFC  
**Rating/Warnings:** NC-17; m/m slash, incest, mentions of underage naughty deeds, kink  
**Word Count:** 1, 887  
**Summary:** Dean tries to remember, and Sam works to remind him.  
**Notes:** Dedicated to one Dean Winchester, on the occasion of his being born.  
  
  
  
  
  
 

**you know he never stings and he only hums for me.  
by keepaofthecheez.**

  
  
  
  
The sting-bite of warm palm against his ass sends Dean’s eyes flying wide open, his hands searching for purchase in the frayed and worn sheets. His fingers grope for cold iron beneath his pillow, even as his brain slows down and recognizes what -- _who_ \-- is holding him still, open.  
  
“Sammy.” A grunt-gasp of sleepy, surprised breath. “Damn it, what—”  
  
Another solid, burning crack of palm cuts him off, has him chewing his bottom lip. Then Sam soothes, fingers rubbing gentle circles along the sorely sensitive area. “That’s two,” he murmurs, and his voice has the gravelly pitch to it that Dean only ever hears when Sam’s about to do wonderful, amazing, _filthy_ things to him.  
  
Things that haunt him and keep him awake some nights wondering the when’s and where’s and why’s of it all. Things he’d never give up, but isn’t sure he deserves.  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
_Dean remembered a time when a cold day in January heralded homemade vanilla cake, sugary strawberry icing, his mother’s warm lips pressed to his forehead and his dad’s booming laughter. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary, but made all that much more special because of_ **why** it was. A child’s excitement for something all about him, he would say now.  
  
After everything went up in flames, those memories became almost dreamlike in their reality, so out of the realm of possibility that it was hard to properly mourn them.  
  
When Dean turned twelve, Sam approached him, all wide, gap-toothed smile and bright eyes, holding out a freshly ‘baked’ mud-pie. No sugar, no strawberry, but twigs and grass, clay dirt barely held together. All Dean could see was the scrawled **D-E-E-N** across the top, probably forged with stick and nail, judging by the evidence coating Sammy’s thick little fingers.   
  
The gritty, sandy taste of earth and water was well-worth the sparkle in Sam’s eyes.  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
“Count them out,” Sam’s saying, husky and demanding, teasing and spreading Dean’s cleft while his other hand continues it’s tender abuse. Never too hard or too soft, just enough for Dean to _feel_ it and back into it, wanting moremoremore _Christ, Sammy._  
  
It’s not until his brother shushes him, sliding one long finger against his hole, that Dean even knows he’s spoken out loud. “That’s five.” Almost a whisper, a plea, and Dean sucks in a breath and grinds down against the mattress and the hard heat of Sam’s thigh.  
  
His lashes flutter, the only sounds disrupting the still-silence a combination of their panting breath and the spanking Sam seems intent on giving. Punishment or reward, Dean’s not entirely sure, and he doesn’t know if it even matters. He still wants it, _longs_ for the attention, the burn, Sam touching and marking and owning.  
  
“Six,” he grunts with the next just-hard smack, and hears Sam sigh his approval.  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
_When Dean turned fourteen, Dad was away in Philadelphia chasing after an unruly poltergeist, and Sammy was battling a fever and the chicken pox. Dean spent the day rubbing lotion over the angry irritations on his brother’s skin, and eating a box of twinkies he’d scavenged from the nearby grocer when he went out for Sam’s favorite juice._  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
He twists his head and finds Sam hard and aching near his cheek, pressing against the crooked seam of his boxers. A damp spot of salt-bitter musk darkens the worn fabric, filling Dean’s nostrils with Sam’s boiling lust, excitement, and he breathes deep and twitches his ass when Sam smacks him again. When it comes, his voice is a frayed and ragged, “Yeah.”  
  
“Ten.” Sam sounds strained and desperate now, and Dean can’t help but grin a little, _knowing_ how damn much this is affecting both of them. They don’t get this kinky, not often, but when they do…It’s only a matter of time before Sam completely loses it and winds up fucking him through the mattress until Dean’s sure a spring’s going to burrow it’s way up and into his spine.  
  
He can’t fucking wait.  
  
Once his nose brushes Sam’s dick, tongue lapping at the stain, his brother lets out a strangled sound that has Dean leaking against Sam’s thigh. Another series of short spanks, and then Dean nearly chokes when Sam’s middle finger pushes up and inside of him.  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“Thirteen,” Sam corrects, and Dean can hear the fierce smile in his voice.  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
_On Dean’s sixteenth birthday, pretty little Lisa Jenkins from Tacoma, Washington finally let him inside her lime-green tank top. Let him fondle and kiss and lick soft, pink flesh until he felt like a man in a way that hunting and killing would never bring, not in the same way._  
  
Her sweet little moans and sighs were comparable to the classic rock albums he considered his most treasured possessions, and when her plump, candy-red mouth wrapped around him and sucked him dry, Dean figured it was pretty much the best gift ever.  
  
Fleeting fragments of mud-pie and calamine lotion wanted to linger in his mind, fully form and become **thoughts** , but Dean managed to ignore them until he got back to their apartment and found Sammy holding a stupid vanilla cupcake in his hand, candle burning too-bright at its end.  
  
“Make a wish, Dean.” Sam beamed, and Dean couldn’t quite figure out the tears stinging his eyes.   
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
“So pretty like this, Dean,” Sam groans. Strokes and stretches him wide with spit-slickened fingers, buried deep to the knuckle now, and Dean blinks back sweat and swallows the answering moan bubbling in his chest. He’ll make them both work for this, more fun that way, and besides, he’s still not really sure what it’s all about.  
  
He knows if he waits long enough, pushes and pursues this intense, dominating side of sweet-soft Sammy, his not-so-little brother will break and spill his intentions and the hard, fast fucking Dean wants -- _needs_ \-- will finally begin.  
  
He licks his lips and murmurs, “F-Fifteen” along with the echo of hand against flesh, cursing under his breath. “Yeah, c’mon, Sam.” Another rocking smack. “Sixteen.”  
  
“You feeling it yet, Dean?” comes Sam’s gritty, low purr, and Dean’s cock shudders a response.  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
_When Dean turned twenty-one, it was Sam on his knees. Both of them drunk on the accomplishment of Dean’s officially legal status, Dean held onto shaggy curls and fucked his brother’s mouth with dazed wonder._  
  
Sam’s thumbs pressed into his hips, holding him there against sun-warmed brick while the mouth Dean had always associated **smart-ass** showed it’s intelligence with soft tongue-strokes and –flicks, swallowing Dean until his toes curled in his battered Nikes and his fingers clenched against Sam’s scalp.  
  
Sam let him come down his throat, sparkling up at him and somehow managing to look too-young and too-wise all at once even with floppy hair and drunken eyes. Dean panted, waiting for the inevitable explosion, and almost slumped against the wall when Sam only licked his lips and smiled.  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
Okay, so he isn’t above begging. Dean knows this the second Sam’s finger finds the sweet-spot, lingering and rubbing and _pressing_ deep enough to drag the burning pleas from Dean’s wet and swollen mouth.   
  
Sam’s holding out much too well, chuckling low in his chest and encouraging Dean with soft croons of, “Keep going…don’t stop. Twenty…twenty-one. Go with it, Dean. C’mon.” Branding Dean’s backside, and Dean absently wonders if he’ll carry Sam’s giant handprint with him for the rest of his damned life.  
  
“You…sonofabitch,” he manages, forces out through thick tongue and tight throat, lips wide open and breath shocky. “Oh, Christ, please lemme. Just lemme.”  
  
“Not yet.” Sam’s voice is quiet, too quiet, and holds a strange note that Dean immediately focuses on. Wants to know, learn, figure out like the crossword puzzles he spends his time fucking around with while Sam clacks away on the laptop looking up whatever ancient spell or ritual that’s just outside of Dean’s source-pool.  
  
Instead, he just grits his teeth and tries to ignore the pulse of his cock. “Twenty-two.”  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
_When Sam left, Dean learned to stop celebrating much of anything, and none of it mattered anyway._  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
They’re getting close to _something_ , Dean can tell. Feels it in the sting in, on his ass, in the steadily more ragged breaths from Sam’s throat. The rapid pounding of blood through veins Dean forgets are even _there_ until Sam pulls something like this and makes him overly aware of every damn square inch of himself.  
  
“Twenty-five.” They both say it together, a jumbled burst of pleasure-pain and frustrated desperation. Dean knows Sam’s waiting for something, for _something_ , and it feels like it’s just out of reach, on the tip of his tongue, brushing his fingertips but he can’t hold on.  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut, bites down so hard that warm copper floods his tongue, and tries to think past Sam’s fingers fucking him open, spanking his ass, and _remember._  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
_When Sam came back to him, it was hard to fall back into the old routine. And it was all too easy._  
  
Homemade cake, sun-baked mud-pies, sweet and filthy blowjobs in the Impala and behind old buildings weren’t the norm and never really had been, and Dean had stopped expecting any of it anyway.   
  
Until he woke up one morning to find himself spread across his brother’s thighs, Sam’s large hand warming his ass and his brother’s eyes glittering with an emotion Dean wasn’t sure he remembered how to put a name to.  
  
  
 

xxx

  
  
  
It comes to him in an almost blinding rush, his dick aching-stiff and swollen, and his cheeks flushed so deep, Dean feels burned from the inside out. It comes to him, and he thinks _of course_ , and wants to laugh and cry and do all of the things he’ll never do because he’s Dean and Sam’s Sam and this is as close to admitting to the soft burst-and-clench in his chest every time Sam looks his way that he’ll ever have.  
  
“Twenty-eight,” he gets out, not sobbing but not that far off from it either. “Are you happy, you son of a bitch?” There’s no heat in his tone, just a gentle barb of _point taken, received and understood._   
  
Sam slumps, gathering him closer, and finally -- _finally_ \-- takes Dean’s cock in hand, squeezes and twists and does everything but rip the damn thing off, which is how Dean likes it and he _knows_ Sam knows. The familiar rough treatment, combined with Sam’s little lesson have Dean shuddering, trembling, spilling across his brother’s fingers in a litany of filth promises and quotes of payback that he knows will never come to pass.  
  
Sam’s fingers slip free from his ass, slap him again, half-heartedly across Dean’s left cheek, and his voice is cracked and thrumming when he says, “And one to grow on. Jerk.”  
  
“Bitch.” Dean snickers, because really, it’s all fucking hilarious as hell. The fact he forgot, that Sam remembered, that it _mattered_ enough for him to pull this stunt…hell, it’s not really funny at all, is it?  
  
He sits up, wincing only a little and shoves Sam down against the mattress. Studies the thick line of Sam’s erection and the flush, the sweat across his brother’s brow. “Happy birthday to me,” he murmurs, and gets to work enjoying the best gift of all.  
  
  
The end...until May 2nd.


End file.
